The Atom that Walked into the Bar
by DemonUntilDeath
Summary: I have reasons for doing this, of course, just like everyone else. So if you'd like to hear the last words of a suicidal Labrat, come in. I'm not much of a storyteller, but I'll do my best. NickGreg
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing

_Note: _This is my first CSI fic, and I really just wrote it out after a sad song that came on. So blame iTunes for this one. I hope you enjoy this!

_Warning_: Nick/Greg pairing

-o—o—o-

_**The Atom that Walked into the Bar**_

Chapter 1

-o—o—o-

I've never been in so much pain before.

Isn't that a funny way to start a story? Perhaps not your most interesting beginning…No, definitely not. But then again, I'm not much of a story teller. In fact…I'm not much of anything at this point (oh, listen to my little pity-party! The ironic part is it only adds to how pathetic I am and, therefore, gives me more reason to seek pity.)

I'm sorry that I won't be able to tell this story very well. In actuality, I probably shouldn't be telling you anything at all.

I don't think I even know you…do I?

I can't help but not care at this point. I'd like to think I'm not trying to get attention – I truly am not – but I need someone to hear my story. I need someone to know.

Otherwise, dying will be as pointless as living...and that would defeat the entire purpose of killing myself, wouldn't it?

My life started long before the object of this story, and therefore we'll be fast-forwarding a bit (I told you I was a horrible story-teller).

It all started, instead, at the wedding.

Whose?

Well can't you see the groom? I can…the image never leaves my mind….I can't get it out, I can't block it, I can't even see around it.

And it _Never Leaves_.

I loved him. That's why the image won't leave. I'm really not so surprised at all that I'm plagued by him in that crisp tux…his clean shaven face and neatly trimmed hair. He cleans up well…Especially considering I've seen him in all his worst.

It had hurt looking at him from far away, from a pew where I meant nothing at all but "another guest."

What was I expecting? Warrick was his Best Man, of course. They were best friends. We weren't. We were…colleagues. Nothing more.

At least, not in reality. Inside my head and down in my heart was something completely different.

Or it used to be, anyways. Now there's only pain in my heart and annoying ringing in my head. Honestly, it won't go awa- oh, nevermind, it stopped.

I had almost decided not to go to the ceremony – almost told them I had a headache (which wouldn't have been a lie) or that I wasn't feeling well (I could have easily passed that as truth – I looked just as bad as I felt, if Catherine was anyone to go by). Or maybe I would have called and given the real truth.

"_Nick, I'm in love with you and so I can't go to your wedding…"_

Yeah, I'm sure that would have blown over just wonderfully. I hadn't managed to tell you in seven years, but heck, why not now? Yeah, I can ruin the best day of your life with five words.

Sometimes I really do wish I had been that selfish…or stupid, depending how you look at it.

Not that I can really talk right now. The sleeping pills should be kicking in any moment and that shot (translation: whole bottle) of Tequila I had should make a splendid Cocktail for my depressed mind.

It's better than taking a razor to my wrists. I've done that before – not for a long time, of course – but it makes a mess. And I've seen what it does to people who succeed.

I don't want anyone having to clean that up – plus, CSI might show up for that kind of mess. Suicide isn't always clear at first and sometimes we're called out before it can be fully determined.

But a bottle of pills in one hand and the number of Liqueur bottles spread about this room will leave no doubt.

My friends won't have to see this mess. _He_ won't have to see this mess.

It's hard telling a story when you're sleepy, but I hope I'm doing at least an okay job. If not, I don't think you'll have much longer to put up with me.

Anyways, I was supposed to be telling you why I'm doing this…Have I already? I can't focus, and the room is beginning to sway. There are two doors where before there were only one, and the television is such a blur that I really can't tell how many there are of those anymore.

You can have Double-vision, but how come no one calls it Triple-vision or Blur-vision?

I think I just fell onto the bed – Ow. Nevermind, I missed the bed and am now on the floor.

What was I saying? Yes…the wedding. Well, I don't really have to explain any further than that, do I?

I lost my best friend (a person I had foolishly let myself fall in love with) to some woman with a southern accent and the most beautiful green eyes.

I never was one to compete with girls, and in this case I would have failed miserably. Not that I even tried.

Perhaps that's a regret I'll have. I always wondered (having the job that I did) what goes through a person's mind as they die?

Do they whisper goodbyes to their loved ones?

Do they wish they could turn back time?

Do they regret?

I know the last one is true for me, at least. I should have tried harder, but I think it would have only awarded me a much sooner death and the humiliation that would have caused it in place of depression.

Nick is a straight-laced Texan boy. He's not going to fall for a guy like me- or any guy for that fact.

And there's the consolation. It wasn't necessarily "me" that turned him off. We hadn't even gotten to the "me" part of this, because he would never get passed the "guy" part of the equation.

I suppose this is very boring for you…or are you pitying me? Perhaps you're trying to call for help. Not much good now, is it? You don't know where I am. You don't even know my name.

You would never make it. (It's Greg Sanders, if that makes you feel better, though.)

But I do – I truly, truly do – appreciate the concern and the effort. I'm not doing this because "oh, poor pathetic me has no one to care for him" or like those "emo" people who do it for sympathy.

I'm doing it because I truly do not believe I can live with this pain. I gave it half a year because I'm not a quitter. I wasn't going to give up everything anyone ever gave me without at least trying to get over him.

It's been six months since the wedding, and I can't even look him in the eye. I quit work yesterday because he finally snapped – yelling and screaming at me.

Why wouldn't I look at him?

Why had I switched to days?

Why did I hate him?

I think that question is the one that finally did me in. Oh the fucking irony.

Me? Hate him?

I'd laugh if my jaw wasn't slowly clenching on it's own accord.

I think Sara might realize what's going on…maybe even Catherine. But definitely Sara.

She never came forward about it, only offered a helping hand. But she's gone now – left and said nothing. She broke Grissom's heart, I think.

At least I don't have anything left behind to be broken.

Although Sara didn't go quite as far as I am going. An interesting conundrum, don't you think? Who will do more damage? Sara, who everyone loved – who is still living, still able to see? Or me, who has no one at the lab to truly leave behind, but will never be seen again?

I have a feeling I might do more damage. It makes me cringe – not very well, might I add. My muscles don't seem to want to do what I tell them to…except the ones in my chest cavity. They seem to be twitching now.

I think it's the end. The door is kind of fuzzy now – like how when you wake up in the morning and it's like you're looking through foggy glass? At least the TV is back down to only two units and the door seems to be swaying between one and two, making a sort of rocking motion for my vision to follow.

Like a lullaby gently swaying me to sleep.

I know my eyelids are getting heavy so I'll say it now: I know you probably didn't want to hear this story. I'm sure you're either calling me a complete idiot or perhaps cursing me with boredom.

I don't really care. I just needed someone to know why I did it, because I didn't leave a note. I didn't leave anything behind.

My whole body is twitching now…it…it kind of hurts, and yet I can't feel anything. My jaw hurts the most. I'm very numb. I can't seem to open my mouth and cry out – my teeth are too tightly clamped.

Everything is getting dark.

Thank you for listening to me, even if you didn't have a choice in the manner. If, perchance, you ever meet a man named Nick Stokes…tell him I'm sorry and that I hope he has a happy marriage and a long, wonderful life.

And…now I'm hallucinating? Well that's a rather silly side effect I wasn't expecting. There's Nick now – and not just one but two of him!

Ha, I get it. This is my "heaven" I'm sure. My last little wish that my subconscious has granted me.

I'm happy dying now, truly happy. I got to see Nick one last time and he's not in a tux!

I don't know why, but I feel like thanking you again…I am happy that someone was there to hear the last story from a horrible story-teller.

So…er…what does one say for his last words? Whoa…I'm really getting dizzy now, I can't feel the floor underneath me.

Last words…last words…Ah!

Did you hear the one about the Atom that walked into a bar?

-o—o—o—

_**The Atom that Walked into the Bar**_

_Chapter 1_

End

-o—o—o-


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer_: I still own nothing.

_Note_: Thank you for all of your support in your reviews! I was amazed at how much attention this story got! Seriously, I think this might be one of my most read fics!

_Warning_: Nick/Greg pairing

-o—o—o-

**The Atom that Walked into the Bar**

Chapter 2

-o—o—o-

"_Have you heard the one about the atom that walked into the bar?"_

_I watch those brown eyes rise to meet mine. They are fierce – angry – but more than all of it, they are weary._

"_Not now, Greg."_

_I manage to withhold the smile I want to give, the comfort I'm trying to convey. I keep my face soft and placid. "But have you heard about the atom that walked into the bar?"_

_My Texan crush looks ready to punch me. I know I'm pushing his limits, but I am trying to make a point (one that was important enough to be worthy of any consequences). _

_Nick had been rather…hostile for the last week and a half. He and Grissom had encountered the obstacle known as a cold and clueless trail. It was a case they were now stuck in the middle of, unable to move forward._

_And worst of all, it involved a missing child._

_I don't know why, but Nick has __**always**__ gotten emotional and often violent when involved in a case concerning a kid._

_And I know well enough that he's near that last blow-up phase now._

"_Look, I'm really busy right now," Nick bites out through grinding teeth. How considerate of him; normally he would have blown up by now, but he's trying to dismiss me without such an event. However, his hands fisting against the evidence table tell me it won't last much longer._

"_I know," I reply easily, clearly stating that I'm not going anywhere, despite his kind attempts. "Have you heard about the atom that walked into the bar?"_

_The Texan finally sighs, running his hand through his short hair. Exasperated, Nick finally mutters, "No, Greggo, I haven't."_

_I allow a bit of that smile now and lean against the light table. "Well, this atom walks into a bar-"_

"_Obviously."_

"_Hush, no interrupting. The atom walks into the bar looking rejected," I continue, making sure that his brown eyes never leave my own. "The bartender asks 'What's wrong, pal?'. The atom sighs. 'I've lost an electron,' it replies. 'Are you sure?' asks the bartender."_

_I can see the wheels in his head turning and creaking as he pieces together the joke and comes up with the punch line before I can say it. That doesn't stop me, however._

"_The atom replies, 'Of course, I'm positive!'"_

_Silence fills the room and I give a bit of my 100-watt smile, perhaps a 50-watt. Then I turn back around and head out of the room as if I hadn't just interrupted him for a childish science joke. _

_I leave a rather confused, but contemplative Nick behind._

_Later, I tell Sara when she asks why I left her when we were processing evidence. I give her the short run down._

_She asks me if it was worth it, but I'm confused. Sara just smiles and tells me I was lucky Nick didn't kill me for interrupting the case. I grin back as she asks me once more if it was worth it, knowing my last words could have been about an Atom walking into a bar._

_Yeah, I think it was._

-o—o—o-

The beeping wakes me first. Stupid alarm. I try to turn it off, but my arms refuse to move. Stupid limb. Now I'm annoyed and I try to groan out my frustration – no sound issues from my sore throat. Stupid esophagus. Stupid gullet. Stupid voice box. Stupid beeping!

Wait…my alarm doesn't even sound like that. In fact, my alarm is set to wake me up with the radio.

And unless aliens finally moved in to try and take over our world, killing all radio waves but for the emergency broadcast beeping, I'm pretty sure it means I'm not in my bed.

Which gives me a couple of options.

1) I got really drunk last night and ended up going home with some random woman with a very annoying alarm clock.

2) I didn't get quite as drunk as I did in option one and ended up going home with some random man with a very annoying alarm clock.

3) I'm in the hospital and that beeping is the heart monitor that wakes every hospital patient in every cheep B-Movie or sappy romance story.

4) I've been abducted by the aliens (who have killed the radio waves on my alarm but I'm no longer on the planet to hear it) and their ship has traveled thousands of light years only to arrive back into their home solar system and find it a complete war zone! The beeping now signifies there are thousands of missiles heading towards us ready to blow us to pieces.

Or I've been talking to Archie a tad too much lately.

Star Trek freak.

So, unless Archie has somehow zapped me into a virtual game he's decided to create about all the aliens in the Alpha Quadrant, I'm going to (regrettably) settle with number two (only because one means I'm in bed with a woman (oh god, I hope it's not clingy!) and three means I was likely injured on the job, denoting my CSI abilities in front of Nick yet _again_).

I try to open my eyes, only to find that their lids are extremely heavy, as if taped down. Stupid eyes.

I manage to force them open at least some. Light pours through and it is bright as hell.

Right, option 5) I'm actually dead. Sorry, I forgot that one.

There is a light breeze going through the room, ruffling the hair that falls across my forehead.

Alright, so if it is option five it means I really am in Hell because I'm certainly not in Heaven. If this is paradise, there would be hair gel and I would not be able to feel the brush of my bangs on my skin.

I'm still sticking with number two, though, because Hell just doesn't sound appealing at this point in my life.

The light slowly evens out and fades to the edge of my vision as my eyes slowly adjust. Everything is white.

Damn it, that means I am in Heaven and they've run out of hair gel.

I give a blink, suddenly feeling rather retarded (I cringe - Grissom would hate the way I used that word) as it takes at least fifteen seconds for a complete blinking motion. My muscles aren't reacting too well to my commands.

They're doing as I tell them…somewhat…but they're incredibly slow. It's then that I notice my entire body aches, as if I've used every muscle.

Great, back to option three. I've been in a fucking beating again.

Well, it's not exactly like it was. My body doesn't feel _wrong_, as if it's swollen in places or broken in others. I just feel sore.

I give a groan and turn my head to the side. My throat works now and sound comes out! (how sad is that – I'm excited to be making noise…that's like a bad porno or something!)

It turns out that everything is not white. Most of it is an ugly shade of off-white or grey. That includes the machines on one side of my bed, the plastic bed guard running to my other side, the ugly blinds gently moving from side to side and covering the window (but definitely not keeping any of the light out) and, of course, the ugly wires and needles and tape and all the crap currently attached to my body in one way or another.

Stupid damn option three. I'm in the hospital.

I freeze, despite my annoyance at my current location. Nick is sitting in a chair across the room. Lucky for me, he's completely knocked out. He's giving soft snores with each breath, his mouth hanging open as he manages to stay on the chair in a slouch that his back is going to punish him for later.

I bite my lip. Forget being dead or waking up with a guy and a hangover.

I just woke up from trying to kill myself. That's right, it's not hard to remember why you're in a hospital when the reason is sitting ten feet from you.

And he doesn't even know it.

"Why am I still alive?" It's the first thing I whisper, my slowly tearing eyes not leaving the Texan. I hadn't done anything wrong in my attempt – how did someone know what I was doing?

How did someone save me?

Who the hell was 'someone'?

I can't really complain about that right now. My angel is sitting in front of me, asleep and oh so innocent.

But I know when he wakes up he'll be angry and hurt. I'm supposed to be his friend, his "little brother" of the lab, someone to talk to when you need an ear. And I tried to kill myself.

He's going to be furious.

I slowly close my eyes, biting my lip hard enough to make it bleed. For some reason, the pain actually distracts me from my current plight. I hate it when Nick gets mad, and I really can't stand it when he gets mad at _me_.

I guess I am a dumb ass in that regard. I am around death every single day and have seen all the ways to end it (both by your own hand or others.) Yet, I can't even successfully kill myself.

I am a lucky dumb ass.

Perhaps I should take it as a "sign" that I wasn't supposed to die. They say, as a scientist, I'm not inclined to believe in such thoughts. Maybe I do, maybe I don't. I'm not sure. Until I can figure out why the hell I'm still breathing, I am not going to draw any conclusions on the matter.

As I open my eyes again, I open them to meet a pair of brown orbs staring at me in a mixture of emotions, most of which I can't identify.

Nick woke up. Stupid distracting thoughts!

We just stare at one another in complete silence; his body is still half slouched on the chair, mine lying lifeless on the sheets. Slowly he rises, knowing that neither of us will ever be able to answer the other's questions with our gaze alone.

The Texan moves over to stand by the side of my bed, a hand gripping the side guard. His knuckles quickly turn white. I can see his eyes better now that he stands right above me.

I find it surprising that it's not so much anger in his eyes (though it definitely is present) as it is relief, fear, concern, and (dare I say it) happiness.

I think they'll be fleeting. He is glad that I am alive, but I'll definitely be hearing about the stupidity of my own actions.

"Why?" I blink (this time it only takes seven seconds!) at the very low words, spoken through somewhat clenched teeth. His jaw is moving ever so slightly underneath the strain. "Why did you do it, Greg?"

Ah, my suicide…_attempt_. How do I explain this to the man that started all of it (not that I am blaming Nicky, he had no hand in my actions, just in my emotions)? How do you tell someone that you loved them, but never breathed word of it and just tried to kill yourself because of it?

And I thought _girls_ were hard to deal with.

But Nick deserves an explanation, whether he knows that or not. It doesn't matter either way: he'd pry it out of me with those soft brown eyes of his. So I find myself opening my mouth, parting dry lips to let forth some sort of explanation.

The problem is I don't have time to come up with anything believable.

I croak out something that sounds sort of like his name…

Okay, so there're two problems. I can't think of anything to say…and my mouth and throat are both so dry I couldn't say it if I did have something to say.

Nick only stares expectedly for a moment, brow slowly furling, before he realizes exactly what's going on. He moves over to the side table, grabbing a pitcher of water beside a vase of flowers (kind of cliché on that one – stupid hospital staff)

I gulp down the water from the glass he offers, thanking the cool contents both for sparing me an immediate response as well as healing my cotton-mouth and swollen tongue.

It heals me better than sleeping pills and alcohol.

Now I just have to figure out how to explain why I _thought_ the aforementioned drugs would heal me.

Or why I partially believe they still will.

"Thanks," I say with a weak smile, trying to delay the conversation with a small bit of my normal self. Nick merely nods (translation: it doesn't work too well). I clear my throat, trying to clear my nerves.

This is stupid and ridiculous.

I finally build up the guts and the depression and the tools to kill myself, and I'm chickening out on explaining _why_?

I must be the biggest wimp in all the world (and that is just going to help that low self-esteem I've already got going, now isn't it?)

Fumbling with my hands, trying to relax among the uncomfortable hospital pillow and mattress, I begin. "I…"

Okay, so I don't begin very well, or very quickly.

I bow my head, not sure how to look at Nick – not sure if I want to. "I fell in love with…this person. Some time ago."

Great, incomplete sentences and utter vague-ness. A damn lie would sound more truthful at this point.

But Nick just watches me quietly, pulling up the chair and sitting down beside me. From the brief glances I steal of him, it looks like he's having trouble looking at me too.

The anger is growing, but it's still overwhelmed by the relief and fear in those brown orbs.

"I was…indirectly rejected on several occasions." My words are slow, each couple of syllables separated by a pause of hesitation. Nick blinks at me. Maybe he recalls all those stories I told about girls I dated and chicks I scored with.

Or maybe he's remembering how long I flirted with Sara (shit, that would be a bad way for this conversation to go!)

"So…I tried to get over them…" Nick doesn't seem to be noticing the vague aspects of my speech. I'm sure he's doing what most people do – automatically assuming and filling the words in.

My hair hides my expression - my bangs are covering my eyes. My hair really is getting long again, I'll have to cut it soon.

"I tried anything to stop thinking about them," I whisper, finding it harder to focus on thinking correctly as words began stumbling freely from my mouth.

I wanted to tell him the truth; I wanted to tell him my story.

But I didn't want to lose him…that's a lame excuse, isn't it? I tried to kill myself – submitted myself to never seeing Nick again – and yet I'm claiming I won't tell him so I don't lose him?

…Okay…the truth then, not some fucking lie I made up to postpone the inevitable any longer.

I don't want to ruin his marriage. I don't want to ruin his happiness.

Fuck me and my life, I've obviously given up most care or hope about that aspect of the situation. But I can't ruin his, not for my selfish excuses and purposes.

Nick is still waiting for me to continue and my thumbs begin twiddling with one another.

"I couldn't do it…I couldn't stop loving them…everything I did was like struggling in quicksand…I just got pulled in deeper and deeper." I can hear my voice shaking. I'm thinking of cursing it for doing so, showing Nick just how weak I am…

But, again, I just tried to kill myself. Doesn't get much weaker than that (despite how much courage it actually takes to do such a cowardly act).

I blink, a tear splattering and soaking into the blanket that covers me: Nick grabbed my hand. I look to the two appendages: my pale, long fingers clenched within the Texan's darker, larger ones.

"Why didn't you tell someone?" Nick asked in a soft voice, giving my digits a light squeeze. "We could've helped you get over her. I could have helped you get some of it off your chest."

I resist the dry and humorless laugh my lungs and horrible sense of humor both supply me with. I told you he would assume it was a girl.

"I don't think you could have helped, Nicky," I whisper. My throat is becoming sore and scratchy once more. He offers me more water. I drink it, but it doesn't do much to soothe the ache this time.

"Trust me…It wasn't a matter of getting them out of my head or off my chest. It was about my strength – emotionally, physically, mentally…I just didn't have it in me to forget them...because I didn't want to."

I cand hear Nick swallow in the silence that clouds us. He's a great guy, sensitive and caring, but he's still not the best with these kinds of situations. Catherine would be the prime candidate.

But, still, Nicky's better than Grissom or Sara.

"G, I don't-"

I shake my head, giving a gentle smile. "Let me get better; let me get out of the hospital…I'll tell you the entire story then…and I'll show you this person I can't get over."

Nick did not seem too happy about this agreement, but eventually had to acquiesce, because a doctor came into the room before he could argue his way into a different situation.

I was in the hospital for another two weeks (bad transition, I know – but hey, I warned you about the bad story telling ability and you're still here, so I can't be that horrible!). The rest of the Night shift came to see me, including Archie and Bobby. Apparently my little "traitorous" switch to CSI only meant I lost Hodge's respect.

Oh, wait, what am I saying?

They all wanted to know the same things Nick always asked me when he visited (which I was both excited and horrified to learn would be almost every other day).

How was I?

Why'd I do it?

Was I going to do it again?

I think Sara understood, just like I thought she would from the beginning. She hardly asked me any questions on the topic, other than if I was going to be okay.

Catherine whapped me upside the head pretty decently, but otherwise stood there with her hands on her hip and the "mother" expression on her face. Lindsey told me that I had basically just been adopted into the "I'll Kick Your Ass If You Ever Do Something So Stupid Again" rehab group.

Apparently meetings were held weekly and lectures were given often. Occasionally guest speakers were present.

I have to admit that Grissom threw me for a loop. He had been there when I first woke up from the beating, at least _after_ they put me in casts and rods and stitches and wires and staples and machines (I sort of felt like an add for Office Max). Of course, my boss had maintained a rather professional aspect when expressing his concern, but he had still expressed that worry.

When he visited me the first time here, however, he made sure to do it when no one else was in the room. He asked me one question without any professionalism or Grissom-ness.

"Are you glad that Nick saved you?"

Oh, yes, I forgot to mention that through all this ordeal of two weeks and such, I did finally learn who saved me and how.

Turns out sleeping pills and alcohol do _not_ make you hallucinate. But I'll get to that later.

I was surprised by my once-boss's question. No one else had asked me if I was happy I was alive. Unfortunately, he hadn't asked me exactly that either. I had a hard time answering honestly in one word.

Yes, I was glad Nick saved me.

However, I am not so sure that I was (or am) glad to be alive.

It was really two questions he had asked, and I wasn't sure how to answer it as one.

I did the best I could without going into the explanation you've received. He merely nodded and told me that if I was ever regretting Nicky's decision, he wanted me to come and talk to him.

And that was basically it for the comfort. The next hour consisted of a detailed explanation of why I did it. How I did it. What I remembered of it. Why I quit CSI. Why I switched shifts. Why didn't I get help.

It was a grueling interview I had seriously not wanted a part in, but bit my tongue and toughed it out.

Warrick was a man of few words (not much new there) and the others mainly stuck to small talk and jokes. I made it obvious that I wasn't depressed, even though I'm not sure if I was….am….will ever not be.

But I kept up the jokes and the laughter and the good attitude and told them I didn't think I'd do it again…I'm not sure about that statement now.

I told Nick that I would tell him everything when I got out, which should be in the next few minutes now. When I do tell him, I will ask him what he wants me to do.

Does he care if I live? Does he care if I die?

And I will gage the importance of life on his response…

Then I'll move back to California. I've had a good two weeks to talk it over with myself and I've decided that's the best possible choice for me to make.

CSIs are usually in constant need, so I shouldn't have too hard a time getting a job somewhere over there. And if I can't, lab techs are _always_ in high demand.

I'll start over: work out my problems that way. I think I never really gave myself a fair chance to get over Nick, considering I was too weak to ever contemplate moving away from him.

A life without seeing my Texan terrifies me, but I've nothing left to try.

Besides, I've a feeling I know exactly what Nick will tell me he wants me to do. He'll tell me he wants me to live.

And so I will. I'll give him up again and take another shot at this forgetting him business.

Oh, don't look so surprised! What did you expect to happen? Did you expect that I would wake up to Nick's watery, googly eyes and outstretched arms? That he would embrace me in all my wires and blankets and tell me he loved me and couldn't stand to see me go?

Get over your cliché romance stories. Stop reading Nora Roberts!

This is real life; reality; the twilight zone.

No sappy love here, just death and murder and pain and a Tower of Terror.

Nick is a straight-laced Christian boy. He's not going to fall in love with me just because I committed suicide…ahem…_attempted_ suicide.

It doesn't work like that. And so what, it makes me a crappy story teller with a bad ending – you already knew that and so did I. I said I wanted to tell my story, not invent some fairytale Disney or Pixar can twist into some sick animated version for a new movie.

And besides, I've news for you. It isn't the end. It ends when my life ends, and at the moment, that doesn't seem likely to occur in the next twenty-four hours.

Anyways, I'm done ranting. Sorry I went off course, but Nick's here now. He told me he'd drive me home so that I wouldn't have to pay for a cab and so we could talk.

And here half of me was praying he had forgotten.

The drive home doesn't take long; St. Rose Hospital is actually pretty close to my apartment. We arrive in far too little time for my nerves, which are back after two weeks of on and off rest.

Nick helps himself to a beer when I tell him he can. He offers me one but I just give a small laugh and tell him I've given up Alcohol.

He catches my eyes, looking me dead in the face and says, "I'm glad to hear it."

Well, there goes any chance of backing out now. His eyes are locked with mine and therefore, I'm screwed. I would do anything while under the influence of those brown beauties.

"Alright," he says as he moves over to the couch. I sit down at the kitchen table and he pauses, glancing to me and then the much more comfortable couch. He joins me at the table with his beer. "You said you'd tell me exactly what happened."

I nod as I stare at the wooden table, moving my hand along the glossed grain. "I will, but first I need you to do me a favor."

He seems curious about the request and gives me a small nod. After swallowing some of the contents of the bottle in his hand, he replies, "Yeah, whatever you need, Greggo."

I give a smile. I don't even think it's a 10-watt.

"Great," I say with a bit of a lighter tone, trying to relax. I cross my fingers among one another, laying them on the table so I can twiddle my thumbs some more. "I want you to tell me how you saved me and why."

-o—o—o—

_**The Atom that Walked into the Bar**_

_Chapter 2_

End

-o—o—o-

Well, that's the end of this chapter. Next chapter you get Nick's story of the rescue and such. I hope this chapter was an alright follow up, worthy of the first chapter. I tried to keep the humor in spades and hope it worked!

**Author Notes**:

_...Star Trek Freak..._ Hehehe...No offense meant, seeing as I happen to be one myself.

_Story Note:_ Greg's saving and Nick's rescuing were not included in this chapter because of the POV. I seriously debated with myself whether to switch up the POV between Greg and Nick or Greg and a Narrator, but decided it would flow best if I stuck with Greg. So the "saving" part could not yet be included. Sorry, but it will come next chapter.

**End Author Notes**

Thank you all for you reviews. I enjoy getting feedback and finding out how well I'm doing, so please review again!


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer_: I still own nothing.

_Note_: Thank you for all of your support in your reviews!

_Story Note_: I have read the soon-to-be-mentioned book in this chapter (by Joseph Conrad (shortened name)) and may I kindly remind all readers that this is a work of fiction: views and opinions of characters in this story do not necessarily reflect my opinions. Thank you!

_Warning_: Nick/Greg pairing

Long chapter this time.

-o—o—o-

**The Atom that Walked into the Bar**

Chapter 3

-o—o—o-

When I was in my senior year of high school, my English teacher (I hated English class. I know that not all science geeks hate English (I mean, look at Grissom, for Pete's Sake (who is Pete, anyways? (Okay, I'm getting really off track now and have completely lost my place.))) Anyways, my English teacher made us read a book called Heart of Darkness by some guy I can't remember.

Hey, come on, give me a break. First of all, you're lucky I even remembered the title, and second of all, it's not like you even care what the author's name was anyways!

I'm off track again, dang it. The reason I'm bringing up the book, which I hated (because I really hated everything we read that year…and every other year in school), was because it had something my teacher liked to call "Framework Devices". Now this, apparently, was a fancy and short way of saying that some guy was telling another guy's story (and he talked for seventy two pages straight! You'd think the guy would shut up after getting a sore throat or something.)

The only reason I bring it up now is because I thought it sucked back then and so I'm pretty sure that if I sit here and force you to listen to me telling Nick's story, it'll suck right now too.

So I'm inserting my own "artistic license" (that is what story-tellers call it, right?) and translating Nick's version of his heroic tale in my own light. I don't think you, who is still listening to a suicidal lab rat like me, wants to listen to me go "he said this" and then "he said that" and then you won't believe it, but, "Oh my Gawd, he said this too!"

I'll save it for the teenager in the apartment two doors down. I can hear her on her phone at all hours of the night (now that I actually sleep during the night and walk around during the day).

So I'll try my best at this. I've never told another's story before (at least not like this) but I seem to have a captivated audience (you are still here, so you must be somewhat entertained…or…er…chained to a desk and forced to listen to me?) and so I'll do my best.

Apparently, two weeks ago, Nick had gotten the feeling it was going to be a long day (haha, so had I, although I had a feeling mine was going to end rather abruptly…I just killed that story beginning, didn't I? …Damn it, we'll try this again.)

Apparently, two weeks ago, Nick had gotten the feeling it was going to be a long day. Between its very early beginning, a lack of sleep, and the frustration of knowing he had to apologize to me, he had a very strong feeling that it was going to be a long day.

It started at midnight (this was about seven hours after his little yelling fest), when he was about three-quarters through his night shift at the lab. The case he and Warrick were working was less than easy (Murphy's Law dictated so) and had proved to be worthy of a double shift (meaning he hadn't slept in about twenty-four hours). By the time he got home at six o'clock in the morning, the case still wasn't closed, but neither Warrick nor Nick were up for a triple (both had fallen asleep at the lab more than once, until Grissom had finally sent them home).

It continued at eleven o'clock that same morning in which, after only about two hours of sleep (he had spent more than three hours trying to fall asleep and failing. Nick, apparently, hadn't been able to get over the fact that he had yelled at me.)

He hadn't slept well in a while, despite the presence of his wife (I don't suppose I've said much about her, have I? I think I told you she had green eyes – really pretty ones. Well, let me fill you in a bit. Her name's Krista, she's a bit younger than Nick and from Georgia. A blonde beauty who seems to be a complete sweetheart, no matter how much I try to hate her. She works night shifts as well.) She was already in bed by the time he got home and hadn't woken by the time he'd left. The problem with his sleep wasn't his tentatively new marriage – it was me. (I can feel my stomach flip inside out as he says this, but I push it aside. I know it isn't what it sounds like to my ears, I'm used to that sort of disappointment now.)

I'd been changing for six months, slowly over time. In his opinion, I acted the same at first, but even my stage face was noticeable. Something had changed in me, and he wasn't allowed to know what.

(Nick is looking me in the eyes as he explains this part now and it's making it really hard to translate a story from those serious brown eyes into a comic tale for your entertainment. I'm trying because I think I'll fall apart if I don't keep going.)

Nick had attempted to breach the subject several times, trying to get anything out of me. I wouldn't crack.

_It's nothing_, I would say.

That was a common response (I can vouch for having given that one many times to many people) and no matter how he rephrased the question, how he changed his approach, he got the same answer. I wasn't giving him anything and I was pulling away.

Two weeks ago, I couldn't look him in the eye without cringing or turning away immediately afterwards, and it was almost solely towards him.

_Don't worry about it. I'm fine._

(I wasn't. And he knew it.)

A blind monkey could tell that I wasn't fine. Hell, Ecklie could tell I wasn't fine! (I nearly choke on the coffee he poured me a few minutes ago. At least he can still make me laugh.)

So he showered and dressed at eleven o'clock that morning, trying hard to ignore the lack of sleep due to the ever present pondering of my craziness.

By noon he was in the office. I worked the Day Shift then…another change that no one could explain (Sarah was gone by then, so no one had any reasoning behind my sudden change). I'd just up and told Grissom I wanted to switch shifts. That it was "better for me" and, to the confusion of all, "better for the team."

(Nick is having trouble looking me in the eye now. I think my decision to leave the team really hurt him, and I pause to wonder if he took it personally. Of course, it was personal, but I hadn't meant it to be.)

And that was that. Grissom didn't say anything, but Nick had the feeling I might have threatened to quit if our supervisor refused the transfer. (I implied it but I didn't have to push it.) None too surprising, if you asked him. I had always been a bit rash in nature, always acting on impulse before reason could kick in.

(I could take offense to that, but considering I'm sitting in a house now banned from razors, alcohol, drugs of any kind, and all other sharp objects, I don't think I've a right to say much.)

Although, Nick admitted that since my lab-rat-self had gone CSI, I had become a much calmer, more predictable person. Most of the others he talked to missed the old me, the one that would play loud rock music and dance around the office in evidence and lab equipment.

(In some aspects, I miss those days too. I know that people wish I was in the lab once more, if only to brighten up their days. But when I was that person, they would only tell me I was annoying. I haven't got a low self-esteem problem, but you can only take so much of being told you're a pain in the ass before you start to doubt even the strongest blockades you build around your image.)

People Nick talked to two weeks ago would have taken any kind of me that they once knew over the repressed, withdrawn shadow they had then.

(It's my turn again to not be able to make eye contact. I know I've been hurting a lot of people lately, making a lot of people miss what I once was. I miss that me too. And killing myself might not have been the best way out, but it was the shortest. I was sick of people telling me to be the old me.

I was the old me back then, and they all told me to grow up. Now I'm grown up and they all tell me to be the old me. I felt like a rag doll being torn between the mouths of two vicious hounds. I like my arms in my sockets, sewn perfectly in place, thank you very much.

I think people look at me, in my youth at the lab or in the field, and think I'm not breakable. They look at me and think "he's the youngest and he made it". Well good for me, but it doesn't mean I'm made of stone. I've got feelings too, and guess what, they're actually more fragile because I'm younger!

I think Grissom saw it; he's probably the only one who appreciated my move towards a more mature self. And he's the person I was trying to impress most. But impressing Grissom is like trying to impress your own father – you work so hard and you sweat and you bleed and you fall down to your knees at the end of it, bowing your head in submission before him for all that you've done.

And for it all you get a nod of approval. That's all that Grissom-all-mighty can ever give you, because that's just the way he is.

So yeah, I miss my old self too, and maybe that's one of my problems. I'm so lost with who I am right now and who I'm trying to be, and who I'm trying to be it for that I've lost sight of everything I am.

But pulling on my arms isn't helping me.

I side tracked again. I'm sorry. I, uh, I didn't mean to rant. I seem to be doing that more and more often. Let's get back to Nick's story.)

This was all why he was in the office only six hours after he'd left it that morning. He was going to search me out and apologize for his anger yesterday. The CSI three had seen the shock and pain in my eyes when he yelled. He'd seen the flicker of nothingness, something that scared Nick, because for a moment after the silence had filled the locker room, I, apparently, had almost looked dead.

(Well…this would be where the very awkward silence fills the room between us. What a fitting thing to be in my eyes the day before I attempt to end my life. I can't bring myself to say it, but we're both thinking it, though I have a feeling his is more along the "why didn't I piece two and two together" guilt whereas mine is the "I can't believe I screwed this all up so badly and involved him" guilt.)

Nick wanted to apologize, though. It wasn't as if he had meant to snap. If I was rash in nature, than Nick could only be explained as volatile. (His own words, not mine!) It didn't take much to set him off, and the loss of a close friend who seemed to resist anyone's help was definitely enough to make him angry.

(Those stupid things they call butterflies in your stomach really feel like butterflies in your stomach. I hate them. They make me think that Grissom is going to pull another one of his experiments on me one day and lay me out on the operating table, cut me open, and take out my butterflies to pin them into one of his glass cases.

Creepy, no? I think I give my brain too much time to think, sometimes.)

Nick knew that he shouldn't have yelled or said what he did. He'd only spoken the truth – only asked why I was avoiding him, why I refused to talk to him or get help. But he'd said it accusingly, and he was pretty sure it had hit me hard (no kidding) and for that, he had to apologize before his conscious killed him. (Funny that it wasn't him it tried to kill.)

Nick scanned through the lab in search of a lab rat that looked like me, but came up with nothing that resembled an insane crazy blonde. (His humor in the situation is making this far easier to tolerate and I really am appreciating that.)

Not yet letting it get him down and figuring that I was probably out in the field, he looked around for anyone he knew well enough to ask about the missing CSI. He had hoped that Grissom might be in early, or maybe that he never left, but he had no such luck.

So, against all desire and in extreme distaste, he found himself knocking on Ecklie's office door. And so the long day just kept getting longer. (That would make anyone's day's never ending. Ecklie is an Ass. I should know, I volunteered to work for him. What was I thinking!)

"What do you want, Stokes?" Ecklie was definitely not a happy person that day (when is he ever?)

"Have you seen Greg?" On such days (or on any day when dealing with Conrad), Nick decided it was good to be short and to the point.

"Sanders?" (How many Gregs do we have in the lab?)

"Yes, Greg Sanders," Nick replied quickly. "Have you seen him?"

"Sander's quit yesterday." My favorite CSI froze, staring at the Lab Supervisor in complete shock and something akin to horror.

"What do you mean…quit?"

Ecklie finally looked up from his paperwork, clearly annoyed to have Nick standing in his doorway taking up his time. "As in he is apparently above the concept of two weeks notice and no longer works here. Now if you don't mind, some of us still do."

(Oooh, now that that man doesn't sign my paychecks anymore, I should kick his ass. He is such a Fu-…grrr, He sucks!)

Nick walked out of the office numbly, his mind not yet able to get around the information he had received. I had quit without telling anyone?

It must have been after their argument, or possibly before – in either case, Nick knew he had put me through Hell yesterday. (Ha-ha-ha…oh the dry humor found in the irony of past revelations.)

He growled out and slammed his fist into the wall, scaring a lab tech passing by. He muttered an apology as he moved down the hall, pulling out his cell phone as he did.

Nick hung up as my recorded voice echoed through the phone. Voice mail.

(That's what that annoying ringing in my head was! I knew it wasn't just me and the sleeping pills. My ears don't normally ring, and (like I said) my Cocktail doesn't make you hallucinate.)

Growing worried, he glanced at his clock. Almost one. I was supposed to be at home right now, sleeping. Thinking that perhaps I had slept through the phone ringing, he dialed again.

He got the same results two more times.

(Gee, Thanks Nick, that ringing was seriously annoying! Although, again, I was trying to die because of him without telling him…don't really have much right to complain, do I?)

Nick climbed into his Tahoe, throwing his phone to the passenger seat as he started the car. He tried to remind himself that he didn't have the right to speed, despite the fact that he was in a police vehicle and panic was rising from his stomach to occupy his throat.

He was still doing a good twenty above the speed limit.

Nick climbed out of his car, barely managing to close the driver door as he hurried up the steps of my apartment. The CSI managed not to run, telling himself he was being paranoid, yet he couldn't help but think the worst. (And he had a right too, I suppose.)

Maybe images of me lying dead on the tile floor was a bit extreme based on the evidence. (I flinch at the raw emotion in his eyes as he says this. What was I thinking: that killing myself wouldn't leave him hurt and angry and in pain?) I had been acting weird, had quit my job, and wasn't answering the phone. But at the same time, ignoring the thought that I might do something stupid was just as extreme given the exact same evidence.

(Nick is trying to do that "stare right into my eyes thing and force me to stare right back" bit. I call it his _Captivation Stare_ because I can't look away, and I don't dare lie. He could get me to promise him anything if only he could hold me in that stare long enough.)

He knew that I hadn't been happy lately, why hadn't he done more about it?

(Because he had done everything he could. I don't tell him this. In fact, I haven't said anything the entire time he's spoken. I'm sure it's not helping him tell his own tale, but what is there to say? I promised I would tell him my version after this, and so I will keep my mouth shut and save my words for then.

God knows I'm going to need everything I've got just to say what I promised I would.)

Nick pounded on the front door of the apartment, calling out my name repeatedly. (I must have been pretty far gone by then or deep in my conversation with you (or a mixture of both) seeing as I was pretty sure I didn't hear anything after the ringing in my ears.) There was no response, no movement inside. The CSI glanced around – there was a woman walking on the sidewalk at least fifty feet away, but other than that, it seemed pretty empty.

So Nick found himself turning around and slamming his foot into my door. (And that would explain the bill from _Buck's Door Repair_ I found in the mailbox upon my return.)

Though Nick was always a scientist first and foremost, he had learned the hard way that, no matter how unlikely a situation was to be dangerous, you should never approach it assuming everything is safe.

He entered my apartment with his gun drawn. There would be no chances taken.

(I shiver to think of that – I _hate_ guns. Enough so that I refuse to carry one, despite the beating, despite Nick's stalker or nightmare coffin experience, despite Sarah's kidnapping. I will never carry a gun. I _hate_ them, and I shiver at the thought of one being in my house, even if was for my own protection.)

He glanced around quickly, searching me out, but found no one. The kitchen had seemed at least recently used, but the TV and sofa looked untouched, doing nothing but collecting dust.

How long had I truly been out of it without them really knowing?

(Too long. Six months. Longer? A year? I don't know. I think I stopped around the same time Nick did – in his relationship with Krista. How shallow of me. God, I'm pathetic. Argh, and I can't even find a way around it! No matter what I do; I even sound pathetic when I'm trying to get over being pathetic!)

Nick ran through the remaining rooms, stopping at the bedroom door. Call it a dramatic pause or perhaps satanic intervention, but he felt fear building up inside of him.

He didn't want to open the door because he had no idea what lay beyond it.

(And his imagination was probably filling in everything he didn't want to think about. I think it was Hitchcock who once said "There's nothing scarier than a closed door". He's right. As humans, our imaginations take the unknown and, when we add fear, our imaginations fill in all the blanks with the worst possible scenarios.

How horrible am I to have made one of those worst case scenarios more than just a scenario for someone I considered my best friend? That's not something you do for the person whose love you crave.)

The sound of a muffled noise, maybe a laugh, came to him as he stood outside my door and he stopped hesitating. He knew my voice, and that had been my voice. He knew my tones, and that tone had been one of pain.

(Had I laughed? I remember something being funny, but I can't remember what. I just remember that my jaw wouldn't let go of my teeth…as…odd as that sounds, since I don't think I want my jaw to let go of my teeth anytime soon. Whatever, I was…_sincerely out of it_. We'll put it that way.)

He pushed the door open, body freezing up at the sight he beheld.

Me. On the floor. Convulsing.

It only took a second to get over his shock (a second that he cursed himself for as the day wore on) before he was sliding down on the carpet beside me, lifting me off the floor.

I was convulsing badly, my hands shaking as I held them to my chest. (I look away from him. I don't want to see that emotion in his eyes.) Nick could tell that my jaw was tightly clenched, but it looked as if I was trying to say something.

Nick felt his heart constrict at the thought that his friend was dying and he quickly shoved away the idea. (I don't want to see what looks like tears forming in those brown orbs.) I would be fine, all he had to do was call an ambulan-

His belt was absent of the normal device that always rested at his hip.

The passenger seat! He had thrown his cell phone there when he couldn't reach me. (I don't want to hear his voice choke on his own fear that he's reliving: fear I caused him.)

Thinking quickly, Nick stood with me in his arms and turned for the door. Another second passed (yet another that would be cursed in his mind) at the sound of plastic rolling across wood. He glanced down at the pill bottle that had fallen from my hand.

And for a second, Nick Stokes could not believe that I (his Lab Rat, in my own words) was trying to commit suicide. (This was a bad idea. A stupid idea. I shouldn't have asked him to tell me this. I want him to stop.)

He swooped down, managing to hold me up with his knee and one arm so he could grab the pill bottle. He hoped it was all I had taken – it would help the doctors to treat me quicker if they knew what it was I had taken.

(I want him to stop. I want to get up and walk away. My seat scrapes on the ground and I make the mistake of catching that gaze. He's angry, daring me to take this back, daring me to leave. I can't move, I can't breathe.)

Eying the bottle of Tequila that lay empty on the floor and the other various bottles spread about the room, Nick doubled his pace and headed for his Tahoe.

(There's something in his voice now that suggests there was relief flooding through him in his tale, something that I should be catching but I can't. I can't think anymore.)

It was too bad Guinness didn't have a category for quickest trip to the hospital (in relation to distance, of course) because Nick would have it hands down.

We made it to the hospital in three minutes. A normal ride (including the twenty miles over the speed limit bit) would have taken at least ten.

Of course…the lights on the front of his car that flashed and clearly said "Police Vehicle, Get the Hell Out of the Way" might have had something to do with it.

(I can settle slightly, he's trying to make me laugh again. The tears streaming down my cheeks as I lower my forehead to the glossy wood of my table might not be laughter, but they're not me running away. He's not going to let me do that again.)

So, to conclude the long day that Nick Stokes was having, he spent the next eight hours in the Hospital waiting room, his friend (being me) behind closed doors and very likely dying of alcohol and sleeping pills.

His own little Suicide Cocktail.

And as the long day slowly drew on into a long night, Nick had the feeling that, while I drank it, he was the one that made it.

In the end, that day was concluded with my complete admission to the hospital, still alive and breathing. It turns out that I was an idiot of a lab rat (something everyone else was so thankful for) because I forgot I'm a lightweight.

Now, under normal circumstances, that should have played into my hands perfectly. Except last New Years (which was three months before I decided that life sucked from as far back of a pew as I could get in a church) the CSI's threw a small get together.

Again, seemingly unconnected until I clue you in (and myself, as I was too smashed to remember) to the fact that Nick and Sarah had taken the Tequila bottle I was happily suckling and readily willing to chug, and watered it down.

I'm a lightweight and they were concerned.

Guess eight months later, they had a reason to be.

A Suicide Cocktail of watered down Tequila and sleeping pills with the twice-intervention of my personal hero. And here I am today telling you this story.

Fate is ironic, and we all know how much I love irony.

"So," Nick says, staring at me as I force my eyes to glance up, propping my head up on my chin now. My eyes are red and puffy, I'm sure, filled with their wavering tears of pain and regret, but I don't care.

"You told me you would tell me why – the full story," he continued, crossing his arms. He's doing the _Nick thing_, which consists of the "bad-ass" attitude he and Warrick like to show. The "I can handle it" expression complete with crossed arms.

Like he wasn't choking on his emotions two minutes ago.

Nick is a confusing fellow, as you're sure to see now that you're meeting him through me. He is extremely emotional, and normally not all that afraid of showing the emotion. I think it comes from growing up with like the seven hundred sisters that he had (the real number is five, I think).

But when he's around the "guys" (which consists of Grissom, Warrick, myself and maybe some of the lab techs) he turns into the tough guy: the pure Texan bad ass and all around one-step short of a womanizer.

I think it's amazing to observe his transitions, because he hides behind something bigger than a mask – he hides behind a personality. But he never quite makes it, like he keeps his foot sticking out so everyone can see it, so that someone can pull him back if he gets lost behind his own disguise.

I wish he would drop it; I like the true Nick Stokes a lot more. He's the one that doesn't have to pretend to be tough, because we all know he is. He's the one who's had guns pointed at him and kept his calm. He's the guy who made it through the coffin.

We all know he's the one that's strong.

I shift uncomfortably, knowing his still waiting for my response. "Don't get too comfortable," I joke, though the mumbling form my voice takes on definitely doesn't do much to enhance the "laugh-ability" of that one. "It's not a very long story."

Nick frowns a bit as I stand and beckon him to follow with a gesture of my head. He rises from his chair as I begin speaking. I move slowly.

"I told you why I did it: I wasn't willing to give up this person I loved, and I had been rejected," I start as I grab a sweatshirt and pull it on over the T-shirt they had given me back at the hospital. I'm glad they kept it for me; it's one of my favorites.

I move towards the front door and wrap my fingers around the handle. "There's not much else to the story except for the person I couldn't get over, and you'll understand when I tell you…I think."

I open my mouth to admit it all, to finally get over everything, even though I'm praying for an intervention. And oddly enough, God is listening.

An arm suddenly slams in front of my face as I open the door. Nick had pushed it shut with his hand, leaning on his locked arm. I stood, surprised and blinking dumbly at his skin before I slowly traced his muscled limb back towards his face. He's staring at me: confused, angry, helpless.

"Greg, please, just tell me…Did you try to kill…kill yourself because…because of me…?" Those brown eyes are so full of emotion, so _hurt._ But I'm in Nick's _Captivation Stare_, and I can't o anything about it.

"Yes," I say softly, but utterly truthfully, and I still can't look away. Nick's emotions are getting the best of him and he tears his gaze away, biting his bottom lip. I can see the question on his lips before he even asks it so I save him the little agony. "But not for the reasons you think."

He looks back to me, surprised, and I gently lay my hand on his wrist. He watches the movement as one detached does; as on in the audience watches a cast member in the play do so. I push his hand off of the door and he watches as it slides across to the wood to the frame, stuck against the lip of the wood. Slowly, he pulls his arm back, as if not sure of what he's doing himself.

I pull the door open and know that I'm opening (and consequently closing) this part of my life forever.

"I tried to kill myself because I couldn't get over you, Nick," I say clearly, easily (far more easily than I thought). I find my voice smooth and simple, as if I am merely chatting about the weather that is now streaming in through the open doorway. Perhaps it's best this way, I am so sick of feeling so much emotion.

Nick, however, obviously isn't done with his emotions yet, as he stares at me in something akin to complete and utter shock, the kind where his jaw would be on the floor if we lived in a cartoon world. I give a wry but ultimately humorless smile.

"I told you, you didn't want to know the truth, Nick…" I look away now, down at the welcome matt beyond the door. "I am sorry. I didn't want you to know because you shouldn't have to, and it's not fair for you to deal with all this."

I take a deep breath. He's only staring at me in stupefied shock, so I don't have to worry about him interrupting. "And I know that it was really, really dumb of me to try to kill myself. I'm not going to do it again, so don't worry about that - I clearly wasn't thinking and…I am glad you saved me, Nick…I mean, how often do you get to be saved by the person you love, right?"

There, I said it.

And…well, he doesn't cringe, but he's basically completely unresponsive at this point, so I'm really not sure what to do with this. He's not punching me (that's a plus!) but he's not saying anything, either.

I move slightly, clearly indicating with my movement that he should go through the door and he does so, not stumbling but moving with the numbness of one who isn't aware of his surroundings or his actions.

"Look, Nick," I say, not even sure if he's hearing me, "go home, alright? Live your life; tell Krista she's a wonderful, beautiful person. Tell her that you love her everyday of your life – mean it." I look at him once more and he slowly meets my gaze. Something in my eyes must have snapped him out of his trance, because those eyes finally seem to comprehend what I'm doing. "Be happy, Nick, and live, because that's all any of us can do."

I close the door before he can do anything and as I do so, I close my eyes and let him go.

The tears hit the ground as his fists hit the door but I can't open it again, no matter how loud he pounds on the wood or how many times he calls my name.

I have to let him go and he's going to have to learn to do the same thing.

I'm not sure how much time passes as I sit there on the ground, listening to his pleas for me to the open the door, for me to explain it, for me to just look at him, but I can't do it. I don't answer him, but I'm not afraid of his threats to call the cops or kick the door down.

I know he heard me when I said I wasn't going to kill myself – he knows that I'm sitting on the other side of the door.

And I know he won't kick it down.

I don't know what time it is when the phone hanging on my hips vibrates, but I know that the sun has set. Silence has filled my apartment for two hours and I'm pretty sure that Nick left a while ago.

He's taken the first step of letting me go, just as I've taken the first step in letting him go. We're moving in the right direction.

But the thing that really counts is we're both moving.

"Sanders," I mutter most miserably into the phone. Hey, I said I was moving on. I didn't say I was going to do it happily!

"Greg?" I blink in a somewhat surprised (and somewhat unintelligent) manner at the voice I am not used to hearing through my phone.

"Hi…Warrick," I reply slowly, again, not in the most caught up and smartest way. Warrick doesn't call me unless we're on a case, and we're not the best of buds, so I doubt he'd be calling me for any other reason than work.

Except, I'm not working any more. Hence the conundrum of why the heck Warrick is calling me.

Unless…Unless Nick told him.

My blood runs absolutely cold and I can feel the shivers of my body trying to ignore the possibilities of truth. I can feel my heart beat double in the very least. I don't want others to know what was hard enough just to break to Nick.

Please don't tell me he was in enough shock to go and tell someone else.

"Y-yes?" I ask shakily. My voice betrays my desperate thoughts to remain calm, to pretend that nothing is wrong until Warrick gives me confirmation that something is.

"Hey, do you know what's wrong with Nick?" The question is both relaxing and taunting. So Nick obviously hasn't told him (since Warrick doesn't have that suspicious "I'm testing you" sound to his voice that he always gets when he _is_ testing someone) but that means that something's wrong with Nick.

"What do you mean?" I ask cautiously, bringing my knees up to my chest. I'm still leaning against my front door and it occurs to me that I should probably move.

"He's walking around the lab like a zombie," Warrick growled out, clearly aggravated with himself for not knowing the ailment of his best friend.

"You mean he's eating human flesh and brains? Ooh, please tell me he got to Hodges first."

I can see Warrick's brow furl in anger, even through the phone. "Greg, I'm serious."

I bite my lip. "I know, I'm sorry." I give a soft sigh and rub my forehead slightly. Yes, I know what's wrong with Nick. Can I tell you, Warrick? Hell no.

"I don't know what's up," I lie quietly, though I make it obvious in my voice that I'm not telling the whole truth. I want Warrick to know that I know something, I want to hint that I can't tell him, because I don't want to keep him in the dark. It's not fair for him, the best friend, to have to suffer through Nick's confusion while remaining blind to everything himself.

Warrick needs to be there to help Nick, and so he's got to know that something's up so he can approach Nick and get the CSI three to talk to him.

"Look, I'll take care of it. Just go back to work." I know that I didn't give him time to ask the questions he wants to ask, but I also know he'll realize I did it on purpose. I shut my phone before he can respond.

And now I'm going to move on to step two far sooner than I had wanted.

And it's all Nick's fault, too! He should have just gone home instead of going to the lab. What was he thinking! Well, in truth, he probably wasn't thinking, something the two of us seem to have in common lately.

I glance down to my phone, really dreading this next stage. I promised Warrick I would take care of it, and so I must. I'm a man of my word, no matter how ugly that word is. With a sigh I flip my phone back open and scroll through my numbers until I get to one in particular.

It only rings three times before Nick's house phone picks up to a female voice thick with a Southern accent. "Hello?"

"Uh…Hi, Krista," I respond shakily. Damn it, I knew this was a bad bad bad idea! "This is Greg Sanders. I'm- uh- a CSI over at the lab where Nick works-" Or I _was_ before I went love-sick and crazy and then, oh yes, suicidal.

Best to leave the details of my life out of the conversation.

"Oh, you're the one who's been havin' trouble lately, right?"

Nevermind, Nick obviously already told her them. Insert annoyance here, since I don't think the story-telling bit is pulling it off much.

Her voice is sympathetic but also worried. I can't help but feel a bit of guilt at my anger. I want to hate this woman so badly, but I have no base for it. It's not right to hate someone because they love the same person you do. That should really be a compliment; it should say that I have good taste. "How are you, honey? Nicky's been so worried…"

I cringe. We call him that…I didn't know she called him that. I shake my head. That's not why I called. That's not why I'm doing this. I can't lose my focus.

I struggle to stay normal (what the hell is normal for me, anymore?) as I nod to myself, gripping my jeans so tightly that my entire hand turns white. It keeps me rooted. "I'm better, thanks…your-your h-husband was a great help." The word itself unwinds all the rooting I have. No hand on my jeans could possibly balance me after that single, horrendous word.

And yet, for some reason, all I can do is hate myself for that instability. How sad and yet oddly poetic. I need to get over myself, don't I?

I chose the best thing for me at the moment; I chose to get my mind off of my white knuckled hand, off of the wrinkled patch of my jeans, and off of Nick's wife (as best as I can, being on the phone with her.)

So I change topics.

"He's at the lab right now," I say, still weakly, but definitely not as shakily. "And, well, I know he's got a lot on his mind. Would you…would you just call him up and make him get his T-Texas butt home?" I threw in a little laughter and, though it was definitely shaky, it was more like the old me. "He's working himself too hard."

She's silent for a moment after my last whispered line. I think she knows that something is wrong, but I think she also realizes I am trying with all of my will to help. I can hear her gentle, calming smile through her words. "Of course I will, sweetie. Thank you for watching out for him."

I nod, now anxious for this phone call to end. I've done what I said I would do – I took care of it the best way I could: through a third party. Nick might want to talk to me right now (and he might not, who knows) but I know I'm not ready to talk to him. There's only so many ways he can say that one thing.

Everyone in the world longs for three words to be said to them, and there're only four words I know Nick has in his mind right now.

And like I said, there's only so many ways he can say those four words.

Krista's voice brings me back to the current conversation and the reason I wish to end it all the sooner. "I'm really glad you're alright, Mr. Sanders. You mean a lot to Nicky."

I can feel the tears beginning to form again and my throat clogs up with the build of emotional pain and regret and everything else I am so sick of dealing with. Don't you think there should just be a limit for one human to feel in one day? I mean, this is the crap they write books about, and I'm not the kind of person you write a story about, you know?

Well…I mean, I'm kind of telling you a story about myself so…

Oh great, more irony.

"Y-Yeah, thanks, M-Mrs. Stokes," I manage to choke out. "Bye now."

I don't even give her a chance to return the farewell before my thumb presses the end button. I can't handle anymore and, in my silent, dark apartment, I fall to pieces all alone, with nothing left to save me but my own will power and a promise I made to the man I'm giving up.

When I was a sophomore in College, I had a boyfriend who's name was Jeremy.

I know the sudden topic change seems weird and I'm also god awful at transitions. We've established these things already, but hang with the poor story-teller, it might get better (either way, I need both a change in topic and _this_ change in topic, so shut up and listen).

He was a weird guy, and we didn't date for very long, but he was the kind of person who could always make me feel better when I was down, or stressed, or basically when anything went wrong.

Even after we broke up, he could still cheer me up at any moment. All I had to do was call him with my voice choked up and tears in my eyes. He told me I had the cutest crying face, and that he couldn't stand to see my "puppy brown eyes leaking baby tears."

He would distract me from studying - especially my Chem. classes. Jeremy _hated_ chemistry, and since it was my favorite subject, he loved to distract me from it. He used to say I shouldn't love a class or a text book more than I loved him. Eh, I was a lab rat, I couldn't help it!

But he would distract me using the cheesiest science jokes he knew, and they were usually related to Chemistry. I only ever found out the reason behind one of them, but I never really questioned his behavior: it was just the way he was. Like me (the old Lab Rat me), he wasn't out to make an impression on others – Jeremy just wanted to be himself.

He was the first person to ask me if I had ever heard about the atom that walked into the bar.

I was trying to study for a rather huge test the next day and told him to go Fuck off in the bathroom.

He told me he didn't want to unless I came with him.

He sported a dashing bruise for a week from being whapped on the head with my Chem book (and that thing was big).

In my dark apartment now, with tears pouring down my face and my cell phone gripped in one hand, jeans in the other, I have no one else to turn to. I bury my head between my knees even as I scroll through my numbers to his name.

I haven't called it since I left San Francisco.

"I'm just like that atom, Jeremy," I whisper to myself and to the air, knowing he can't hear me but wishing he could, wishing I could call him up with my choked voice and pouring tears. I wish he could make me laugh, but I know I can't press the send button. I know I can't call him anymore. "I'm just like the atom in the bar."

"_Have you heard the one about the atom that walked into the bar?"_

I curl onto the ground, squeezing my eyes shut. Maybe I'll visit Jeremy's grave early this year.

"I'm just like the atom, Nick," I whisper my mantra to the air. "I'm just like the atom."

-o—o—o—

_**The Atom that Walked into the Bar**_

_Chapter 3_

End

-o—o—o-

I hope you enjoyed this chapter – I apologize because it wasn't as funny as the first two (but come on…the zombie line? That had to make up for something, right? ;D) The next ones will be funny as well, but I can't promise a certain level of comedy each time. It just depends on what happens while I'm writing it.

I hope it was good and please review!


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer_: I do not own CSI.

_Notes_: Please don't steal my follow up to the Atom Joke that Greg uses - I came up with that myself and I am rather happy with that thing. Have fun with it, but if you like it and are going to use it in a story, please ask first.

Also, please don't be insulted by the jokes cracked at Nevadan or Californian drivers – it's all made in good fun.

_Warning_: Nick/Greg pairing

-o—o—o-

_**The Atom that Walked into the Bar**_

_Chapter 4_

-o—o—o-

_I nervously approach him, fiddling with my hands the entire time. He's half sprawled out under one of the large trees spotted across our campus. God, he still looks amazing to me, spotted with the sunlight that filters through the leaves, shirt just beginning to ride up as he naps on the grass._

_My palms are sweaty (and steadily growing worse); I can feel the rest of my skin beginning to follow suit, adapting a light sheen to the paleness._

_It's not that it's hot – Northern Californian weather is to die for (especially Palo Alto) this time of year. But Jeremy and I haven't been close lately- not like a couple._

_I'm rightfully nervous because I'm about to break up with him._

_I mean, we haven't kissed in something like two weeks (not that I'm one to count days, or anything). And it's not that our relationship is based on kissing (or the physical at all, though it certainly was nice while it lasted), it's just that I know something has changed._

_When you've been close to someone for a long time, you know when you're pulling apart. You might fight it and deny it, but you still know it down in your heart._

_And in my heart, I know that Jeremy and I aren't the same anymore._

_I make it to his side without too many second thoughts (at least not enough to make me turn back) and sit down beside him in the grass. I just have to keep telling myself what I already know; we don't love each other like that anymore._

_We've been the closest of friends for almost two years now, dating for half of one. There has never been anything the two of us couldn't share._

_And now I'm going to share this._

_"Hey, Greggy!" he says, suddenly sitting up onto his arms with a flurry of motion that surprises me. I hadn't realized he was awake and so fully aware._

_I turn to look at him, placing a smile on my face that I'm not sure my heart's behind. I'm still so scared of hurting him, even though he's so strong._

_And then his lips are suddenly on mine, soft skin brushing skin in a quick, chaste smooch that leaves me staring wide eyed at him as he pulls back._

_Well, so much for that excuse._

_"H-Hi, Jeremy," I reply back shakily, trying to find my footing again. This is what I was so nervous about. Jeremy's always been able to read me – to know exactly what I need and to be able to give it to me, even if it isn't what he really wants to do._

_He's always about making other's happy and knowing just what is needed to get them there._

_"Whoa," he starts out suddenly, sitting up more fully as if in all seriousness. His voice captures my attention as I turn to him, eyebrows knitting. "What's wrong?"_

_I frown further, not understanding what he means. But, then again, it's Jer, so he probably knows that something is wrong. Nevertheless, I still ask back, "What do you mean?"_

_"Well, you're wearing that expression – that 'Don't hit me with the newspaper because I'm wagging my tail __**really **__hard and trying to look __**really**__ cute for you' expression," he replies longwindedly as I just stare. "Oh, that and you used my full name. You never do that."_

_Why couldn't he have just skipped the first half? He's always doing that! I sigh, though I'm not really irritated; it's always a bit of a cat and mouse argument between us (no pun intended). "Why does every look I give you have to be acquainted to a dog?"_

_Jeremy's grinning as he leans towards me. "Because you have such big," he kisses my right cheek- "brown," he kisses my left cheek- "puppy dog eyes." I moan slightly as he kisses me once more on the mouth, tongue just darting out to entice me further._

_No! No! No! Remember why you're here. Remember that when you're not emoting desperate need for love and attention, you know Jeremy makes a better friend than love interest!_

_I've thought this all over a hundred times when I'm not around Jer. It made sense then, I know it still makes sense now: it just doesn't make sense when I try to make sense of it now._

_It's that thing that always happens with Jeremy. His ability to always do the right thing at the right time (like kissing me just now – knowing I was craving that affection!) is what makes this so hard._

_But Jeremy is still talking about my eyes and I tune back in. "-that are just craving attention...and a little bit of sadness..." he trails off in almost contemplative silence before picking right back up with the same vigor he's so well known for. "So, what's up?"_

_I stare at him for a moment, convincing myself that I really do know what I'm doing. I really have thought this over._

_I love him, but I love him as a brother and a friend and a man I used to love._

_"Well..." I begin shakily, gaining strength as I manage to convince myself that we both know this is coming to an end. At least, I hope he does. "You've heard the one about the atom that walked into the bar, right?"_

_Jeremy stares at me for a moment, nothing readable floating across his face but he does raise an eyebrow at me. He says and does nothing for such a long, singular minute that I begin to once more doubt my decision._

_And then he suddenly grins, practically from ear to ear. "Yeah, I mighta heard of it."_

_I smile back a little. "Well," I say once more, nodding to myself to keep me going strong. I'm doing the right thing. "Say that atom decides to split and go to two different bars..."_

_I watch his reaction carefully. He raises an eyebrow at me, but it isn't in anything more than curiosity, so I continue, "Will there be a nuclear reaction?"_

_Once more he stares at me with no emotion that I can read. And then he blinks once, twice, and then several times rapidly, as if each time helps him process the idea I just threw out._

_A chuckle escapes him, surprising me. And then a laugh. And then he keeps laughing. I stare in shock as Jeremy falls back to the grass, clutching his sides as he's racked with his mirth._

_Jeremy is laughing himself to tears and I don't know if it was because I'm breaking up with him, or because I'm using __**the**__ corniest science joke in the world to do so._

_I like to think it's the latter._

_When he's recovered, cheeks still wet and shining from what sun streaks through the big tree above us, he just grins at me._

_It would be a 160-watter on my scale._

_"Alright," he acquiesces with a bit of a nod. "No nuclear reaction, but I hope you know those atoms are maintaining a chemical bond."_

_"Only the strongest," I agree._

_"Like the hydrogen bond!" he suddenly declares, giddily wrapping his arm around me. I glare at him, smacking him over the head with my own._

_"You idiot! That's one of the weakest bonds in chemistry!" I hit him again for emphasis, insulted by the insinuation that our friendship could be so weak._

_"Ow!" he whines, grabbing at his head. "Leave me alone, I'm a philosophy major!"_

_...That was my sophomore year; Jeremy's junior. We stay the best of friends through my senior year. Even though he's graduated, he comes to the grounds often – like today._

_We lay opposite each other, our heads pressed together. His fingers are curled in my dark blonde hair, playing with strands as we stare up at the stars. It would be romantic if we weren't long over our relationship – me knee-deep in new one and he dawdling around with a possible._

_"Hey Jer?" I turn my head even as he turns his. Our foreheads are pressed together as we glance at one another, him questioning and me searching. "What's the joke about the atom mean? I know it means something."_

_Jeremy just stares at me for a moment, the ghost of a smile playing over his lips. His fingers resume playing with my hair before he smiles fully and mysteriously replies, "You still don't now, Greggy?"_

_-o—o—o-_

The midday sun wakes me from my dream first as it blinds me through my eyelids. I should have closed the blinds.

Not that it really would have helped, considering the pounding on my front door was the second thing to wake me up, and would have become the first by default had I been intelligent enough to close the blinds before falling asleep.

Actually, I don't remember falling asleep. I recall packing; it's all I've been doing for two days straight. Well, that and avoiding thinking about what I'm doing.

Speaking of such, someone is still hammering away on my door. Hard.

It's probably Grissom. He's been by here twice now. The first was to offer me my job back, which was more than he should have done. I'm sure he went through hell with Ecklie to do it, too.

And I didn't even apologize for switching to days in the fist place. I really should do that.

The second time he stopped by was with Catherine, who apparently dragged him along when she learned that not only had he failed to bring me back to the lab, but I was apparently moving somewhere as well.

She was less than happy about that, but I convinced her it was for the best, as was her silence towards the others.

But back to Grissom. I wonder what brings him this time.

Ruffling my hair (talk about bed head – how long have I been sleeping on the couch?) and stumbling around for a shirt (giving up, too – you'd think it'd be easy to find in an apartment full of nothing but boxes), I answer the door in nothing but rumpled jeans.

And meet face to face with Not-Grissom. Come to think of it, he's not the type to pound on a door.

Despite my embarrassment and deep red blush, I have to admit a bit of smug satisfaction that Not-Grissom (which you surely know by now is Nick Stokes) had his own flush and somewhat distracted gaze.

"Nick?" I ask, bringing his eyes back up. My grip on the doorknob looks to be about as white-knuckled as his grip on the doorframe. Best to make this quick before it gets awkward.

"Uh...you...you took so long to answer, I was afraid..." Nick trailed off, obviously having his thoughts jumbled within his own head and then jumbled some more by my state of appearance.

"I told you I wasn't going to do anything stupid again, remember?" I come back dryly, trying to make a joke of all of this. He doesn't laugh.

So much for saving us from awkwardness.

"Did you...er...need something?" I try again, deciding this time that I'll just keep it serious. Maybe pretend like it never happened? Yeah, like that ever works. And here I've been preaching all the time to drop the Romance Novel crap.

Nick just nods immediately, giving me the impression that whatever he wants to say is urgent. However, it looks like his mouth doesn't really want to work as well as his neck. "Look," he starts, just as shakily as I did, "I-"

I can hear the tightness in his own throat trying to choke him and briefly close my eyes. Enough. He shouldn't have to go through this – this that obviously pains him – because I fucked up.

Several times, actually.

"It's alright, I know what you're going to say, Nick," I interrupt, keeping him from having to continue. I allow the smallest of smiles to cross my features, though I think it's a pathetic excuse of the gesture. "You don't have to say it."

I can see that he's tempted by my offer, by the escape route that I'm giving him. He could take it and turn around, leave and never have to deal with the ache this all causes.

Which is what I'm trying to make him do. Some might say its selfless – it's not. Some might say it's pathetic – maybe. Honestly, it's purely selfish.

Seeing him in pain is painful to me and knowing what he's about to say is ten times worse. Part of me (most of me) doesn't want to hear it said out loud, because then it'll be true.

With his words they'll be no hidden hope left for me to feed on when I'm down and alone, hiding once more from my own truths.

But his eyes harden and grow cold with something akin to anger, much to my surprise. He shuts those beautiful brown eyes and gives his head a firm shake. "No."

He repeats it, as if it wouldn't go right through my head (and my chest) the first time, "No, you may know what I'm going to say, but I still need to say it!"

Well, I have to admire him for that. There's so much force and strength in his words that I can only nod and cast my eyes downward. I can't look him in the eye because I truly do know what he's going to say.

But that's fine, because he isn't looking me in the eye either.

He struggles to say it, grinding his teeth through a tightly clenched jaw. I give him all the time he needs – I've got nowhere pressing to be. "I'm sorry, Greg, but...I-I can't return your feelings...I...I don't feel that way."

That way. He doesn't say it with any sort of infliction in his voice at all, but I can still hear the disgust. It isn't that he's disgusted by it, not that I think anyways, but more so that he doesn't understand it and never could.

Not my straight-laced Texan boy.

And even when you know the words are coming, even when you convince yourself that you can handle them, they still hurt like hell. I keep my eyes down, focused on a particularly odd grain in the wood of my door, which is blurring in and out with the tears I am desperately blinking away.

I know why I'm crying but, as I told Nick, I also knew this was coming.

"But," he continues, enough emphasis on the word that I am forced to pay attention but not to hope. I still know what comes next, even without my Nana Olaf's psychic powers. (For those of you still tied to that desk, that was a joke.)

"But," he repeats, his voice having broken up in his first attempt to continue. There are tears in his eyes now too. "I still want you to live. You can call it selfish but-"

"I don't call it selfish." My interruption immediately stops him and I finally meet his eyes, trying to mask as much of my pain as I can. He doesn't need to see what he's doing to me right now. I don't need him to see what he's doing to me right now. "I understand, Nick. I really do, and I thank you for coming and telling me face to face."

I know it all sounds rushed and rehearsed (to you and to him, I'm sure). It is. I'm not good at on-the-spot interaction under the stress of emotions. The only time I could ever even half-ass it was with Jeremy.

And as I said with the half-ass comment, I still wasn't very good at it. It took me two weeks to script out how to break up with him.

Nick looks pained that all I have to say is that, but what did he expect? Should I tell him instead of the pain I now have at what he said?

Where would it get us, exactly, but right where we are.

"Greg, I-" Nick stops himself this time, another thing I wasn't expecting, as his eyes focused on something over my shoulder and behind me. I turn my head to trace his gaze and see nothing but boxes.

Oh.

"Are you moving?" His voice is suspicious – accusatory.

"Yeah, actually," I reply weakly, trying to keep my voice as normal and almost nonchalant as possible. I don't want to break down in front of him. I can't stand the thought of being lowered any further in his eyes. "Back to San Francisco."

His eyes widen and I can instantly see the pain of betrayal followed by the anger. The white-knuckled grip on the frame is back (not that it ever really went away). "Why?" he practically hisses as he leans forwards.

I can't help but pity him and I'm sure the sorrowful, regretful look shows on my face. And I'm sure he hates it. But I'm not going to hold it back – he needs to hear this just as much as I need to get it off my chest.

"Because this isn't a Disney movie, Nick. You want me to like you, but you don't want me to love you." I hold up my hand, forcing him to withhold his own interruptions. "That's fine. I'm willing to try, but I can't do it here – I've already failed once and look where it got me."

"I'll help you!"

"You're going to help me forget you?" I ask dubiously, allowing the cold sarcasm to drip into my voice. I watch him flinch. It's painful and hurtful to us both, but we need it.

We've been living in our own fantasy worlds; me believing I could live without him while still being with him (figure that one out) and he thinking that everything could be wiped away like a blackboard.

I'm not made of slate and my feelings aren't the consistency of chalk. I like to think I'm more substantial than that.

"Greg, you don't have to-"

"But I do, Nick." My voice is forceful. I'm not going to deal with this because I know that I can't handle it. I look away. All he would have to do is ask me to stay and look me in the eyes at the same time and I would be his.

But he wouldn't mean it. He wouldn't even know that he was doing it. Damn him and his Captivation Stare.

"I've made my decision. I'll come back in a few years, perhaps," I continue, nails all but digging into the doorknob now. "It'll be just like old times, if Grissom gives me my job back, of course."

Nick doesn't laugh and I'm not surprised. His jaw is clenched so tightly that I can see the veins beginning to stand out. Even his skin is beginning to tint red.

The regret begins to fill me like a faucet and a cup. I wonder how deep my glass goes and what will happen to me when it overflows.

I know that he is furious and, though I feel he has a right to be, I still can't help but be pained. This isn't how I wanted us to part ways.

Yet I stick out my hand for one of the most awkward handshakes in my life. His grip is numb at first and then bone-crushingly tight, as if he hopes to awaken me from all this by breaking my hand.

"You're just running away."

Those are the last words Nick Stokes says to me before turning around and walking away from my apartment.

I can't blame him, but it still hurts like hell.

"No, Nick," I whisper now to only myself. "I'm not running away anymore."

It's about five before the moving truck is completely packed (luckily, I don't have that much crap to pack up) and able to head out and six-thirty before I'm good to go. By now, I have to say, I'm feeling like complete crap.

I won't lie. I'd love to say that I was already on the mend – starting to heal, but it is waaaay to early for that.

-o—o—o-

The sun is heading towards the horizon, just beginning to sink behind the mountains. By the time I pack my own car up and climb into the driver's seat, the strip is cast in orange light, the multi-colored buildings turning deep shades of the light.

I'm on the road immediately and all at the end of Rush Hour. I used to live in California (and learned to drive there), though, so this really isn't anything. My only complaint is that people here can't drive worth crap. They just plain suck at it.

I mean, I know that they say Californians are crazy at driving, but that's just because they're aggressive – willing to weave back and forth, do so at high speeds, and deal with a lot of very frustrating traffic all at the same time.

But Nevadans can't do it. They don't know how to handle traffic and changing lanes with the efficiency of California drivers. Being one of the latter, it's a real pain in the ass to deal with and has sincerely affected me for the past eight years.

But now that I'm just getting used to it, I get to go back to California, where I'll be considered one of these completely wimpy drivers because I've adjusted to Nevada standards.

Though, I have to say, these roads are so much nicer. Las Vegas actually paves their streets. California pot-holes theirs.

It's the only state that could turn "pot holes" into a verb. Quite an accomplishment, I must say.

Okay, I admit that joke was pretty lame, wasn't it? I guess I should really apologize. If you're that poor person still chained to a desk (and, man, have you been there for a long time now) then you must not only be extremely bored and irate, but also feel ridiculously cheated.

I told you almost five weeks ago you wouldn't have to deal with me much longer, yet here I am, still bantering away.

I suppose if I'm a voice inside you're head, telling a story like the good little lab rat (who can't tell a good story if my life depended on it), then I'll eventually fade away when the story ends but, unfortunately, I don't know when that'll be anymore.

I thought it would be when my life ended, but...well, we all know how well that worked.

And I'm not going to be stupid again – I'm not going to end my story on my own. I'll let the writer do it however they see fit. Perhaps that'll be today, now that I've learned my lesson, confessed and confronted Nick.

So...I guess it might seem pointless, but I want to thank you. Having someone to talk to, even if I don't really know whether you're there or not; even if you can't answer back; it's been helpful.

Thanks for listening to me and my story. I don't know how it's going to end, but I've enjoyed telling it (and I didn't do that badly, right?), however long and boring it was for you.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

...You still there?

Damn.

I tried.

Okay, you've got me, I've no idea how to made it end, so I guess you're stuck with me in your head and you chained to that desk until my life ends on its own.

I hope you don't mind me narrating my story because I'm going to be around for a lot longer.

...Do me a favor and laugh at my jokes, though, however lame. Humor me, it makes me feel better.

Oh shit! Sorry, the asshole in front of me just cut me off. JERK! Hold on while I flip him off...Now that that's done...Jeez, this stupid guy in a white truck just weaved in front of me and I had to slam on my breaks to avoid him.

Not to mention because of him I pushed the wrong button on my iPod and got Metallica instead of Marilyn Manson. Now I'm really upset – never, and I mean Never take away my Manson.

Although, it reminds me of the one good thing that came from all this mess: now I no longer have to succumb to the evils of Country Music for Nick Stokes.

Score one for Sanders.

I smirk as Manson fills the car. Muuuuuch better.

The asshole in front of me is stepping on the gas to fly by the semi to the left of him (I'm hanging back – don't want to be in the blind spot of that big thing.) I shake my head to myself.

That guy is going to get someone killed with his insane driving. It's not Nevadan or Californian. It's Assholean.

He's weaving again (I suppose he would call it "changing lanes") in front of the semi. I think I'll pass him and the semi at the same time, get as far away from Whitey as possible.

I don't want to be anywhere near him. The last thing I need right now is an accident.

I know you need these detailed descriptions of my life (I'm stepping on the gas now, if you cared to know) but if you're stuck with me for the rest of it, I think I should try and make the best of it, right? (Passing the semi now.)

Oh fuck, the assholes back in my lane again! Shit, he's losing control of his vehicle – he must have hit another car when he merged. Hold on, this isn't going to be prett-

_-o—o—o—_

_**The Atom that Walked into the Bar**_

_Chapter 4_

End

_-o—o—o-_

If you didn't get the ending of this chapter: Greg is speaking directly to the reader. When he stops thinking, trails off, or loses consciousness his narrative stops.

Hence the chapter stopped.

Please review guys. I'm really proud of this story, and we're really really getting close to the end. I'd really love your reviews, your feedback, your thoughts!)


	5. Chapter 5

(_Disclaimer_: I do not own CSI.

_Notes_: Well...Here we are – at the end. I'm amazed no one has killed me yet. But that might be because no one seemed to see this coming...at least no one wrote about it in the reviews.

Please don't kill me. Everything in this chapter happens for a reason and has been planed since chapter three.

_Warning_: Nick/Greg pairing)

-o—o—o-

_**The Atom that Walked into the Bar**_

_Chapter 5_

-o—o—o-

_My name is Greg Sanders._

_Five weeks ago I tried to kill myself. _

_Three weeks ago, I decided to live without the one I love. _

_Today I'm going to die in a car crash._

_And all I can do is look towards the heavens and ask, "You're fucking kidding me, right God?"_

The first thing I really know – the first thing I can really respond to – is Brass, leaning against my window and looking for all the world like the kid who discovers Santa ain't real.

"Sanders..."

That one omission, that one utterance from the detective tells me more than all the mutterings and bullshit of the E.M.T.s.

I'm not going to make it.

But I already knew that. The blood in my mouth tells me so. The lack of any feeling below my neck tells me so. Physics and anatomy and science and Murphy's Fucking Law all told me I wasn't going to make it long before the first ambulance made it to the scene.

They can't even pull me out of the car. Not that I really mind, I rather like this car, though I wish Marilyn Manson hadn't stopped.

"Hey Brass."

My voice sounds sort of...wet. I guess it might explain the blood in my mouth. Maybe I punctured a lung with a rib or something. The thought is actually scary and I think I would be panicking if all my adrenaline hadn't been used up during the accident.

"Hey...how you feeling, kid?" I can see tears in his eyes. Wow, that's...that's really touching. Brass has always been a bit intimidating to me and because of that, we've never been very close. We've talked due to our jobs but, in all honesty, I've always ducked behind Warrick or Grissom and let them do the talking.

I'm honored that he would care enough about me to show such emotion.

I put effort into smirking for him; a true Greg smirk. Maybe not a 100-watter, but I'm pretty damn proud of it either way. "Can't feel much of anything to tell you how I feel."

He opens his mouth to reply and then just closes it, like a fish. A Brass Fish.

Instead he just nods. "Oh," he gets out. "That's...that's good."

I nod, or I try to. My head doesn't move much and I can't tell if it's because my neck is injured or because paramedics put a brace around it. I look back to him, just standing outside my mutilated car door, one hand gripping the mangled metal.

"Don't pretend," I say, smiling again. "I know I'm not walking a-away from this." My voice is getting wetter and it's harder to keep my words stable. The liquid I thought was filling my lungs feels like it's getting thicker, starting to slowly crawl up my throat. "I mean, look at my legs. They're certainly not g-going anywhere."

Indeed not. The truck that had sent me into the concrete barrier also sent me _over_ it. My hood and windshield were smashed. My dashboard met up close and personal with my center console and passenger seat, and my steering wheel became well acquainted with my legs.

Bone-crushingly well acquainted.

But that was all before the on-coming traffic and my car became close, personal friends. It was a successful first meeting (to put it lightly) but it's not looking good for a long-term relationship.

Brass meets my eyes and the strength fades away. I see it then – he's just like me in that moment, hiding his pain for another's benefit. For my benefit. Slowly, he reaches forward and wraps his fingers around my left hand.

Christ, I'm still clutching the steering wheel like a last lifeline.

"Grissom's on his way. The whole team's behind him." I close my eyes. That's good. Slowly my fingers loosen on the leather of the wheel but I can't force them to let go, despite the comfort of the detective's hand.

I don't even know where my other arm is. I can't feel it and I'm not brave enough to look.

"Did you hear me, kid?" Brass asks, the faintest traces of panic in his voice. "You have to hold on 'til then, Sanders. Grissom's on his way."

"I heard you," I whisper – still hoarse, still wet. It's beginning to hurt. My throat feels chaffed as the blood trickles up and down it, threatening to choke me. Yet the skin feels dry and rubbed raw, parched of any liquid.

It's not a pleasant paradox.

Grissom must have broken more speed limits than Nick did on his World Record Rush to the hospital, because it was only a few minutes before I heard Brass shouting for him. At least, I think it was only a few minutes. Time seemed so slow, so measured.

So ready to stop altogether.

"Greg..." It's the first thing he says that I acknowledge and I slowly open my eyes. The lids are heavy now and I know this feeling – this sleepy, peaceful sensation.

I'm dying...again. But this time, no one's going to save me. No one can (My name is still Greg Sanders, if it makes you feel any better.)

I guess that writer of mine decided to end it a little sooner than I'd hoped...Guess you won't have to stick around all that long, after all.

"What happened?" Grissom's voice is quicker, sharper. It's hurt and confused in that Grissom way that means he doesn't understand something he desperately needs to.

But the question isn't for me.

"Two cars merged into the same lane," Brass began but his voice was quiet, as if he didn't want me to know of my own demise. It's not like it really matters if I know or not.

"...semi swerved to avoid the crash..."

First of all, I was there. I know what happened.

"...says he didn't see Greg..."

I was all too aware, unfortunately. I should have stayed further away from that asshole truck. I knew he was going to cause trouble.

"...sent him over the barrier..."

I knew he was going to get someone killed.

"...into on-coming traffic..."

I just didn't think it'd be me.

"Brass," I interrupt with my whisper of a voice (though, at this point, 'gargle' might be a better description), "was anyone else hurt?"

My eyes are open again, though half-lidded with exhaustion and I know they'll never open all the way again. It is a morbid thing to realize, but it's not like I haven't faced all this before.

Don't get me wrong, though. It's not like having gone through it once means I'm a hero (people, I attempted suicide – that's normally considered a cowardly sin) or something courageous. I'm scared shitless. I'd probably be shaking if my body had anything left in it.

I'm sitting here, praying to a god I don't believe in that someone will save me again.

I can see Brass glance at Grissom, but my boss's eyes are on me. It's nice to be the sole beneficiary of that gaze. I've tried so hard for so long to get his approval, to impress him (as a son does a father) that it is a good last moment for me to be bathed in that gaze.

"Some injuries, Sanders," Brass answered, giving Grissom the window to stand by, releasing my hand. "A few serious and being taken to the hospital, but we won't know more until...later."

I can tell he's lying. Other's died but he's reserving the information. He doesn't want me to know, and that's okay.

Again, I'm touched by how much he cares.

I try to nod once more, forgetting that I can't, but I figure he gets it. So I turn my attention to Grissom. It's the last time I'll get to say anything to him.

And with how tired I am, it might be the last time I say anything to anyone.

"Grissom." This time I put effort into chugging down the disgustingly thick substance that has gathered into my throat and mouth. If I'm going to have last words (and by god, I've never shut up in life so I'm not doing it for death!), they're not going to be garbled by this crap.

That, it turns out, was a very dumb idea.

If I thought I couldn't feel anything, than Death was trying to prove me wrong because coughing fucking hurts like hell. I've been beaten to a bloody pulp, hit with fists and feet, and even been thrown threw a glass wall by exploding green liquid.

But I've never had a broken rib through the lining of my lungs be jostled, tearing the muscle further as my diaphragm tenses and expands, forcing my lungs to do the same.

Fucking Hurts.

And the lovely mixture of blood and whatever-else-is-in-my-lungs that I just coughed up all over my steering wheel isn't exactly a plus either.

I may be used to handling blood but _ew_.

"Greg, don't talk," Grissom immediately says, one hand on the base of my neck and the other on my forehead, trying to keep my head steady.

I think my neck is in a brace.

"You kidding me?" I manage to gargle out and I can feel the blood spattered on my lips. I give him a grin, which could probably compete for world's scariest smile (blood staining my teeth and lips, bruises already forming on my face. Yeah, picture-perfect. Worthy of next years Christmas Cards, even.) "These are my l-last words, Griss, and you want me s-spend them in s-silence?"

The pitying look on Grissom's face wouldn't be tolerable if I didn't know it was the only way he showed his grief. It was the same look he wore the day after Sara left...and the consecutive week thereafter. My boss was never the kind to laugh at my jokes, but I think he would be far sadder if I didn't go out true Greg style – laughing all the way.

"I mean, c-come on," I continue, eyeing him with as much amusement as I can muster. "What would you p-put on my grave? 'His last moments were s-spent in s-silence...for once in his life'? Not very f-fitting."

Despite my shuddering voice, Grissom's shoulders sag a little and I smirk. Victory! In Grissom language, I just got the equivalent of a chuckle.

"Greg..."

And leave it to Gil Grissom to kill my victory in less than a minute. In less than half a minute!

The despair in his voice is something I've only ever seen twice: when Nick was taken and when we couldn't find Sara.

There's only one difference between them and me. Back then there was hope; the prospect we'd find them – that we could do something to save them. And we did.

There is nothing that can be done to change this outcome.

That despair is complete and a pang of guilt goes through me. I now know the answer to my earlier question. I've done far more damage than Sara has, because Grissom – Nick – the whole team...none of them will ever get me back.

Now I have to make it right.

"Grissom," I mutter, closing my eyes as I lean back against the headrest. I know I have his attention so I try really hard to keep my voice clear, despite the fact that the creepy crawly thickness is back and so is the urge to cough. My chest is burning and my toes are tingling and somewhere to my right, my missing hand is beginning to ache.

"I'm s-sorry I s-switched to days," I whisper dryly, which surprises me considering lately everything I have been saying is pretty much soaked with blood and mucus. Considering the situation, the reversal is really not a good sign.

My boss is staring at me, surprise in his eyes, which really doesn't surprise me. Did he not expect me to say that on my deathbed? Of course not, it's Typical Grissom – he can tell you everything there is to know about a dead guy he's seen for all of three seconds but he's absolutely clueless in front of a live, breathing guy he's known for eight years.

One who's just seeking a fatherly figure's approval.

And then it seems to click. I see it in his eyes as they widen slightly. Maybe it was the pleading look in my eye, the defeated pout that accompanied it and begged him to understand.

Or maybe Grissom finally had an epiphany.

"Greg, I'm not mad about that," he says quickly, his hand on the metal door tightening its grip. I stare at his older, aged hands against the scraped and torn material that used to be my car. It's covered in glass shards (most swept hastily away by the E.M.T.s and firefighters) but neither Brass nor Griss seem to care about what's left.

Have you ever wondered what people would do or think if you were gone? Would they notice? Would they care?

I look up at Grissom, noticing the pain in his face.

Trust me, you don't want to find out what people think when you're gone, because by then, it's too late to change anything.

"Grissom." My voice is so tight that I choke on the very word itself and spew more of my precious, dwindling life force over what's left of my car and my shirt (luckily not one of my favorites). I can feel the nerves in my eyes sting with the pain of my tears, my chest ache from the dull numbness of my former paralyses.

I can feel everything draining.

And then I feel Grissom gripping my hand tight enough to bring a pain in its own right, but a grounding pain - a comforting, rooting anchor to keep me in this world.

"Grissom," I croak again, determined to speak. I have faced pain and death and fear all before, both willingly and un- and I refuse to back down now. Not when it is the most important.

I lick my lips, desperately trying to feed my mouth with anything other than blood. "You...you gotta tell...the o-others, Griss," I whisper, closing my eyes as I hold onto my boss's hand, using his lifeline.

I know that I don't have much left in me.

"They're on their way," Brass cuts in from beside Grissom, his own voice breaking. I'd forgotten he was there. My vision isn't allowing much past Gris to get in, and the detective isn't more than a blurry blob.

"I'm...not sure I'm g-gonna make it that long," I mutter, trying to put it in a humorous tone, knowing neither man is going to even crack a smile. I close my eyes once more, trying to conserve the energy I have left. I have to get this out. I have to tell them.

"Tell S-Sara that sh-she's beautiful," I whisper, knowing it's not the best thing to be telling her (ex)boyfriend this, but what's he going to do, kill me? (not that Grissom's the type to ever do anything physical about it). "Sh-She knows it...t-tell her to believe it."

I can feel Grissom tighten his grip on my hand. I'm not sure what it means, but I'll take it as a sign of encouragement (as good as I've ever gotten out of Grissom).

"Tell Warrick...sorry we didn't s-spend more time..." My thoughts, so clear in my head, are getting jumbled on their way to my mouth and I find myself only speaking half my mind- funny, my whole life I've never had that much to say but I've never shut up. Now, when I finally have something I need to say, I can barely even speak.

"But...he was s-still...a b-brother to...me." My breaths are heavier now, shallower but more labored and the wet gurgling sound accompanying each one isn't boding well for me.

Grissom and Brass have both remained silent as I talk, my connection to Griss's hand the only way I know that they're even still there. I slowly open my eyes, starring out the cracked and almost completely shattered windshield.

"And C-Cath...Tell Cath sh-she's a great mom...thanks for b-being there for me..." My vision is off, like it's dim somehow. I feel like someone went in and turned the brightness down.

I feel violated. I'm not a computer, you know.

I wonder if a computer feels that way when you turn the brightness level down. Does it feel violated too?

"Tell Lindsey...bye...for me...and Hodges...he's an a-ass..." Well, the last one was easy to get out. I catch Brass's snort. The truth is Hodges will appreciate the (completely true) insult.

"Mia...she's amazing...Wendy t-too... And tell M-Mandy sh-she's beautifu-" I cough again, spattering blood over myself for the un-numbered time. My body finally tries to move on instinct, sending my right arm to try and cover my mouth.

I barely keep back a scream.

Now I know where my right hand is and I'm glad I didn't look previously. Pinned and crushed between where the center console and central dashboard became one, the reason for my lack of Manson has now become apparent.

My right hand is basically residing _in _the radio, right now.

Damn it, I don't have time for pain to be blacking out my vision. Isn't death supposed to numb your pain? Well numb already so I can get this out!

"Greg," Grissom's voice is panicked, which terrifies me more than the crushed metacarpals and phalanges or the eye-blinding pain or even the knowledge of certain death ever could. Even though I know that he's panicked because of all these things, it doesn't matter: there is nothing more terrifying than an always-calm Grissom suddenly not calm.

"I-I'm alright," I barely get out, wincing at the grinding feeling that speaking has on my lungs. I didn't even know internal organs could do that. "Well," I say with as much of a jokingly air as I can manage, "r-resp-spectively s-speaking.'

Grissom has that death grip on my hand again (more irony - God, an English teacher would go crazy with all the analyzying you could with my life the last few weeks!) as I swallow thickly.

"Where...was I?" I whisper once more as my eyes close again. I try to open them and my heart nearly stops when I realize I simply can't. They are just too heavy now and I no longer have the energy.

"Mandy." Grissom's reply is soft, as if he prays that I won't hear him so he doesn't have to listen to anymore. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't want to. I wouldn't want to listen to a man's last words either.

Esepcially not someone I knew.

"Oh...yeah," I say, a smile gracing my lips. My girls. My lab techs. I love the lab rats; they're always so happy to do what they can. All but Hodges, of course. Kiss Ass. They're not like the CSI - they don't get so caught up and hurt by cases. They just work and laugh.

I used to be like them.

"Archie," I whisper almost without thinking. Oh yeah, I'm supposed to be giving messages to Grissom. Last words. I have to stay focused on Grissom. "Star...Trek...f-freak."

Well, not exactly what I meant to say, but I think he'll appreciate the consideration.

"Grissom," I whisper, thinking about my boss. What does one say to the man who knows everything? Well, you instruct him in the one thing he doesn't know. "Tell Grissom-"

"I'm right here Greg," he replies harshly, his voice raw with the pain I can't identify anymore. Why's his voice like that? Sheesh, I'm just trying to tell him something and he's interrupting me now. But that's Grissom for you.

"Yeah...tell yours-self...Go after h-her." My voice sounds all funny, like I'm talking through a bunch of bubbles. I wonder if he can even understand me any more. It's kinda funny actually, but I try to ignore the humor.

Gotta focus on Grissom.

"You make her...s-so happy..." I can't remember why I'm here, talking to him. I remember a lot of loud noises and some pain...a lot of pain. And I vaguely feel like I should be afraid, but something feels like it's missing.

Why is it so dark?

"Nick..."

That's right. I have to tell Nick because he has to know. But what does he have to know? He has to know before...

I hear Grissom shout something followed by a tugging on my arm, ever so slightly. He's trying to let go! No, I have to tell him - but he's not listening. He's shouting to someone and my voice isn't reaching his ears. Hell, it's not even reaching my ears.

But he has to hear me because he's the only one who can tell Nick. And Nick has to know because I'm going to die.

Panic rips through my numb, slowing systems and forces my eyes open in the surge, locking Grissom's eyes with mine. So I squeeze his hand with every last ounce of energy I can muster, weeping with the very pain of it all and begging him to hear me, to listen to me.

I have to say this to the only one there to hear it.

"Nick," I whisper - rushed, panicky, harsh and gargled and oh so very tired. "Tell...N-Nick...the a-atom..."

My voice dies and I know I won't get a second shot. I've said all I can in this world, but I've said it - I've told him and he'll tell Nick. So I close my eyes and let go, because I finally can.

In college I had a boyfriend named Jeremey.

He was a philosophy major. He loved to tell me cheesy science jokes - distract me from my homework. He was a good talker and a great story teller and never worried about bad transitions.

In sophmore year, we broke up.

He was the closest friend I ever had. I loved him like no one has ever loved a friend before - and in a purely platonic way after our run. Joined at the hip, we were, and no crowbar held by human hands could pull us apart.

In my senior year, he told me what it was for an atom to walk into a bar.

_"An atom walks into a bar looking rejected." _

Atoms are the basic building blocks of all life. We're taught that from Biology and Chemistry 101. From Life Science and Earth Science in elementary and middle schools. Even children know that.

_"The bartender asks 'What's wrong, pal?'"_

But what few of those children go on to realize (even though they learn it) is that of every second of every day, atoms are gaining and losing things.

_The atom sighs. 'I've lost an electron,' it replies. _

Yet life goes on.

_"'Are you sure?' asks the bartender."_

Now, it's true, atoms don't have feelings - emotions - attachments. I questioned Jer's logic too, but he answered me easily and with a small smile.

_"'I'm Positive!'"_

Sometimes, he said, when things get too complicated, following the most simplistic example of life can help us get through it and live.

The Atom joke is just a joke, but Jeremy believed it could also be a lesson.

He liked to think it was about living with what we gain and what we lose.

Three weeks later I lost Jeremy to a bullet from a grocery store robbery. He wasn't trying to be a hero, he wasn't trying to do the right thing. He just got shot.

And I didn't understand it.

A week after his funeral, with a razor to my wrists in the bathroom of my apartment, I still didn't understand it. But I knew I was supposed to be an atom. I was supposed to be _his_ atom because he had become my electron.

My lost electron.

Alone, bleeding and sobbing in the bathtub, I finally understood.

It meant LIVE.

Now I visit Jeremy's grave every year with a rose and a model of an atomic structure from the Periodic Table of Elements. Next January would have been number nine: Fluorine. I already bought the supplies and everything. I do it from scratch instead of one of those kits.

It means more, I feel.

The point, though, is that I was able to live with the loss of my electron. Even though my music got quieter in the lab around January, even though I still cry until my eyes run dry every time I buy that boquet of roses, even though I never got over my hatred for guns.

I lived.

I wonder if Nick will hate freeways and semis.

And I don't know what I am to Nick Stokes anymore but if, perchance, I am one of his electrons, he'll have to be like the atom - my atom - and live.

There are others to gain and others to lose. That is the beauty in our building blocks.

I still don't know you, and let's face it, you still probably don't care much what happens to me. That's alright - it wasn't ever a requirement that you did.

I wanted to thank you for listening to me again. I know you didn't have to (and even if you were that one unfortuante person chained to a desk, I thank you anyways). Sometimes an ear is all it takes to calm someone who isn't ready to die.

I'm still not ready, but I haven't got a choice anymore.

I don't need to think of last words this time. No deliberation or stumbling about. I've already got them.

And I know I won't regret them

If you ever meet the man I love, tell him about the atom that walked into the bar.

-o—o—o-

_**The Atom that Walked into the Bar**_

_End_

-o—o—o-

Wow...

Well, that seriously took a lot out of me.

Phew...I know...I'm sorry. I'm sure half of you hate me but...these types of stories are my specialties. I love to get emotional reactions out of readers (assuming I actually managed it, which I hope I did).

Anyways, for those of you totally NOT SATISFIED by that depressing ending, a somewhat more conclusive, happier (though still sad and slightly) TWO-SHOT SEQUEL companion piece is now available. You can find it via my profile under the title _The Electron that Walked Out._

Thank you all and please review!


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